


Firelight

by dappercat



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Drinking & Talking, Drunk Sex, Iorveth makes odd decisions when drunk, M/M, Oral Sex, Practically virginal Iorveth, Slightly bittersweet ending?, blowjob
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-08
Updated: 2018-06-08
Packaged: 2019-05-19 18:27:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14878967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dappercat/pseuds/dappercat
Summary: Iorveth noticed, with small surprise, the often slit-like pupils in the witcher’s mesmerising eyes now dilated to fill the width of the iris. On occasion, he’d seen it happen in the darkest of caves, Geralt gazing easily into the pitch black while Iorveth waved a torch futilely behind him, or after drinking one of his witcher concoctions. He had never had it focused on him, and not in the light of the fireside - suddenly, he felt a shiver dance lightning-fast across his skin.Iorveth is upset about Saskia; Geralt helps.





	Firelight

**Author's Note:**

> This is not beta-read. I wrote the first half of it in one go and then the rest in sort of stop-and-start sections, so I'm not sure how well it flows; ah well!

“Did you know?”

Geralt only looked at him, his expression enough to pull a sigh from Iorveth’s mouth.

“All right, all right…” he begrudged, “A stupid question.” He nursed the bottle of Temerian rye vodka in his hands - donated, graciously, from Geralt’s bags. He’d been using it all evening to build a dam against any tears that threatened to come. A few moments here and there had come close, that pricking behind his eyes that seemed to aggravate old scars and send a creeping pain up the right side of his skull, but he’d been stubborn against them. He would not fall to something as simple as _sadness._

The White Wolf shifted. “When would I have been close enough to her to talk about that sort of thing?”

“All _right_ , I said,” he snapped back, then regretted it instantly. It wasn’t exactly becoming of him to project his frustration onto someone who had nothing to do with it. That was the sort of childlike behaviour an Aen Seidhe knew better than to give into. “I just-” he sighed, half into the bottle, “-feel so _foolish._ I should’ve… Known, somehow. Known _better._ ”

“It’s not as if you can tell by looking at someone what they like to fuck,” his companion mused.

“But I _knew_  her!” Iorveth shook his head, as if he could dispel the very past from possessing him. “Thought I did,” he corrected himself, quieter.

“You’re fine, Iorveth.” Geralt took a swig from his own bottle, then gazed into the fire. “It’s an honest mistake. Happens to all of us. You think you would make a good match, only to find out something’s not lining up.”

The elf snorted derisively. “That has never happened to me.”

Geralt raised an white eyebrow, turning his catlike stare onto him. The famous witcher eyes; they caught the light of the flickering flames in a way that made it impossible to look away. “How many people have you had feelings for?” He paused, then- “Wait, no. How many people have you _admitted_ feelings to?”

Iorveth scowled at him, but Geralt only stared impassively back, calling the elf’s bluff, until he mumbled a response: “You know the answer to that.”

“Mhm. Can’t act like you’re better than the rest of us if you’ve never tried.” The witcher returned to his vodka, tilting his head back to take a good quaff of it.

“I’m not exactly encouraged, dh’oinne-”

“Not human,” the witcher reminded him.

“-by what just happened with Saskia.” Iorveth narrowed his eyes and turned towards the fire. “ _Dwarves_ ,” he hissed to himself, as if the very word itself was poison.

Geralt shrugged. “Short, tubby, probably well endowed-”

“ _Gwynbleidd._ ” The venom in Iorveth’s voice cut Geralt mid-sentence, and the witcher raised his palms in peace, though the effect was ruined somewhat by the bottle he clasped in one hand. 

“Only saying. She probably has her reasons,” he said finally.

“How,” Iorveth began in a dark tone, “would you know how well-endowed dwarves are compared to elves, Gwynbleidd?”

“A guess,” Geralt said, in that most frustrating of impassive tones.

There was a crashing of glass; Iorveth realised a few ticks later that his hand was empty and he had tossed the bottle to the ground in frustration, where it lay in sad shards with the last remnants of vodka pooling around it. Geralt looked at the shattered sight with something of a strained pain in his eyes, which Iorveth ignored, staggering to his feet.

“Right,” the elf said, watching Geralt’s eyebrows climb towards his hairline as Iorveth began to undo the laces of his britches. A moment later his cock was out, sitting in his palm and looking quite innocuous, lit orange by the glow of the fire. The witcher’s amber eyes swept over it.

A few uncomfortable moments passed, and he was suddenly aware of the cold air on his bare skin, though he was warmed enough by the alcohol and-- something else. “Well?” he added, as Geralt continued to regard his cock with an inscrutable expression on his face.

The witcher leaned back a little, looking back into the fire, seemingly unaware or disinterested in the heat that was moving up Iorveth’s neck. “Mm,” he said, non-committally.

“Mm?”

“Would have to see it hard,” Geralt explained simply to the fire.

It didn’t seem like he would have to wait very long. Somewhere under the haze of vodka came a muted sense of alarm as Geralt’s words went straight to his cock. Yet, somehow, he felt that part of him grow quieter and more distant, as if it was being trapped inside the very smallest corner of his mind.

He sensed, in the quiet night, Geralt watching these proceedings without turning his head, eyes fixed on Iorveth’s stiffening cock, the vodka bottle sitting unused in the witcher’s hand.

The elf looked down wordlessly at himself, and moved his hand just a little, encouraging but tentative. The breath caught in his throat was let out in a heavy sigh, and he felt all inhibition leave with it. Carefully, he persisted with more purpose, pulling at the length of his cock with deft, practiced movements of the wrist.

There was no pretense now; Geralt had turned to look at him properly, and somehow with the witcher’s attention any embarrassment he felt at having his cock out by the fireside dissolved. Iorveth noticed, with small surprise, the often slit-like pupils in the witcher’s mesmerising eyes now dilated to fill the width of the iris. On occasion, he’d seen it happen in the darkest of caves, Geralt gazing easily into the pitch black while Iorveth waved a torch futilely behind him, or after drinking one of his witcher concoctions. He had never had it focused on him, and not in the light of the fireside - suddenly, he felt a shiver dance lightning-fast across his skin.

“Impressive,” the White Wolf said quietly. His black eyes looked up and found Iorveth’s gaze.

“It’s not-” _hard yet_ , the words died on his tongue as he realised the lie, now pulling at his cock firm and thick. With that, it was as if all the little noises deep in his throat came rushing to the surface; with effort, he bit them back, only hissing through his teeth an “ _ah”_ of arousal.

Iorveth had no comparison for the length or the thickness of his cock; despite his age he had never seen another hard. But he knew himself to be longer than average, but, he thought, thinner than a dh’oinne’s, perhaps-- The thought broke off as he saw Geralt set his bottle down, loosen his britches, and tug free the bulge to reveal a flushed, gleaming head, and a shaft of prominent veins.

“Ah,” Iorveth said, quite calmly given the hot heartbeat he could feel in his own cock. “You are thicker, dh’oinne.”

“I’m not human,” Geralt said, again.

“-Of course.” Iorveth watched the witcher stroke himself, slowly but with tight grip, and for a moment that was all they did together. Iorveth, eyes trained on Geralt’s hand and cock, and his own hand moving blindly on himself, pulling small muted gasps from his own throat.

“’Course,” Geralt added, as if it had just occurred to him, “would still have to see a dwarf’s cock to make the comparison, but-”

Iorveth hissed in exasperation. “Oh, shut _up_ , Geralt.” In a quick movement he stepped over to the witcher, dropping onto his knees in the dirt, and without quite knowing what he was doing, took Geralt’s cock in his mouth.

It had seemed a simple enough idea when it had formed in his half-blurred mind, but now the reality struck him: that he had never sucked a cock, and that it required finesse he did not yet possess. The thickness of it seemed more prominent when he was trying to fit it in his mouth - damned _dh’oinne_ \- and from above him he heard Geralt yelp: “ _Teeth_ , Iorveth, mind the _teeth_.” Iorveth dutifully minded them, and took a little more into his mouth, rewarded by a sharp groan from the witcher. Between his own legs, his cock pulsed with heat, brushing against his belly and begging for contact. He ignored it; allowed himself, instead, to note the curiously salty taste in his mouth, before Geralt thrust forward without warning and he gagged.

“Sorry,” the witcher said as Iorveth pulled away, coughing. “You, uh-” Geralt scratched his beard awkwardly, “-this is new for you, isn’t it?”

Iorveth glowered up at him. Geralt held his gaze with a quirk of his mouth. “It’s not a contest, Iorveth.I’m not trying to make you feel bad.” He gestured between his legs, where his freshly sucked cock gleamed in the firelight, flushed red and precome beading at the top, and fixed Iorveth with a look of - was it hope in those eyes? “Won’t buck my hips this time,” he promised, softly.

Iorveth said nothing, but still he ducked his head down to take the witcher’s cock in his mouth again. This time Geralt exhaled a long, drawn-out moan as the elf took as much as he could in one quick movement. The thick head of it hit the back of Iorveth’s mouth; shifting, he tilted his head to let it slide down his throat a little, determined not to be defeated by his own gag reflex. Above him he heard a low groan, and Iorveth smiled around the thickness of it.

It wasn’t long then. He was inexperienced, yes, but a quick learner, like of all things. His tongue, darting along the underside of the witcher’s cock, elicited stuttering moans; the moans grew sharper as he focused upon the head. “ _Fuck_ , ah-” Geralt was hissing above him, “ _Fuck_ , _fuck_.” Iorveth hummed in satisfaction. This contest, he thought, he would soon win.

The only warning came, despite his promise, in the form of a sudden buck of Geralt’s hips; there was barely a chance for his throat to complain before hot liquid filled it, and pulling away in alarm, he coughed and spluttered it onto the ground. Wiping his mouth with his hand, he caught Geralt’s eye; the witcher, panting, looked at him with something akin to hunger.

He looked away from the blown, cat-like pupils. “Enough,” he rasped, then grimaced. His throat, it seemed, had not taken well to its first cocksucking experience.

“Wait.” The witcher began to rise, but scrambling to his feet - staggering, only a half-step - the elf beat him to it, swaying only a little from the remains of the drink in his system and the exertion he’d just went through.

“No, Gwynbleidd,” he said, more breathless than he’d hoped to be, “Enough.” His cock bobbed out of the corner of his eye, insisting very much so that it was _not_  enough - he ignored it. “I’m drunk, it’s late,” he added, then through gritted teeth: “And this is all some- damned- _projection_ , of my feelings for someone else.”

The witcher stilled, then, and slowly sat back down, amber eyes boring into him silently. Iorveth held the look for a moment - then another - before he pulled away, his neck prickling with something he didn’t care to think about. “Enough,” he repeated to himself, making his careful way to the other side of the fire, then, settling down by his bow and quiver, turned his back to the witcher. The dirt was cool on his cheek as he lay against it, gravity welcoming him to the ground.

“Rest,” he called out, his voice wavering only a little. “We have things to do tomorrow.”

He laid there on his side, the fire warming his back and the noises of the night greeting him from the front, until he heard the eventual rustle of the witcher settling down. He counted the minutes it would take for the man to fall asleep - or to reach a meditative state; even after all this time it was still unclear to him what the witcher did at night.

Then, when he heard the witcher’s breaths come slow and even; when the vodka heat in his veins had faded a little and left only hollowness in his gut-

-finally, _finally,_  did he allow himself to wrap a hand around his cock.


End file.
